Some say I’m angry.
I’m not. Not much.
I have regrets, that’s honest.
Or is it?

I wish I’d never made one single mistake.
Not one ‘oh shit.’ But, I have. I did.
Is there a pride hidden behind my scars?

Tense dark and gloomy feelings
may bleed from within me,
but they’re not what I am.
Have I found that which I love?
And will I allow it to kill me?
To take me away? Why not love?

Who and what am I?
Am I a line in some poem?
A thought?
A feeling?
The sum of all my yesterdays?
Am I what I seem? (are you?)
Or a dream?

There’s much that I am
and some that I’m not – here and now,
yesterday I was, but he’s now gone.
Perhaps to be in some tomorrows,
yet to be as I am, or what I’m not.

I am not gone. I am here. Hear me,
touch me, feel me, kiss me.
Love me.

Read my thoughts into your mind.
I’m not lost, not gone. I am here,
just here.

No mistakes. No regrets. What’s left?
To live – into life’s many questions;
into the mystery of poetry
with softly spoken breaths.

© Bill Reynolds 9/10/18

Look. The gaps? Oh, yes! There are gaps.